Convocation Remarks, 2004
August 24, 2004
Let me begin with a story-at least part of one. It is not mine. Rudyard Kipling wrote it almost a century ago. He called it "The Eye of Allah."
Here is the setting:
The Time and Place: A mid-summer evening in medieval England; a powerful and wealthy monastery on the edge of the New Forest.
The Scene: The Abbot's private dining room-a table richly laid.
The Cast: At the table's head is, of course, the Abbot, a proud man of both faith and science-a highly skilled physician as well. The others: A visiting Italian surgeon of great international reputation; a famous friar who teaches philosophy at Oxford; a well traveled, worldly lay brother who is one of the great illuminators of the age; and finally-the monastery's chief physician. Five men in all-all men of learning-all accustomed to the world's deference-and most of them-easy in the exercise of power.
The conversation ranges widely but comes to rest on the subject of science and faith. The Italian surgeon-and the philosophical friar-argue with heat that the Church's ossified doctrine stands in the way of scientific study and the advance of the healing arts. The Abbot-deeply faithful-but proud of his scientific learning-listens-listens carefully-but sits mostly silent.
As the evening draws on and the conversation grows increasingly warm, the well traveled lay Brother-pausing for effect-draws from beneath his cloak-a small stamped leather box that when opened reveals what Alooked like silver-bound compasses of old boxwood-with a screw at the head-and a metal cylinder that carried glass or crystal at each end."
He had brought the device home from a recent trip to Spain. An invention of the Islamic world-it was known there as "The Eye of Allah." We would call it a microscope.
Placing it on the table, the lay brother carefully squeezed into the small hole of the compass leg a drop of green puddle water. He adjusted the swivel mirror and invited all in the company to look. All but one-saw in the water-for the first time-a new world-teeming with life-life beyond their imagining.
The Italian surgeon-turning in wonder from the instrument-exclaimed:
"It is a new world-a new world-and oh, God Unjust! - I am old!"
The monastery's chief physician-his hands shaking-said: "It is Life-no Hell! Life created and rejoicing-the work of the creator. They live-even as I have dreamed. Then it was no sin for me to dream. No sin-oh, God-no sin!"
The Abbot-standing slightly apart and speaking-quietly-as if to himself: "It was shown to me in Cairo many years ago. Man stands equal between two infinities of greatness and littleness. Therefore, there is no end."
The Italian surgeon interrupted-and laughed with an old man's malice: "What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave-where do we stand?"
"At the stake," said the Abbot, "thou knowest that."
"But thou knowest," said the surgeon, "here-here and now is a world all in darkness concerning the causes of things-fevers infinite-and of maladies of all kinds. Think!"
"I have thought upon it," replied the Abbot, "I have thought upon it indeed."
With not a word more, the Abbot unsheathed a small ornamental dagger-and with its hilt smashed the crystal to sparkling dust.
When he had done-he said-"It would seem the choice lies between two sins-to deny the world a Light which is under our hand-or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo.
This birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age.
I know both the world and the Church. I take this choice upon my conscience. Go. It is finished."
And then-Kipling tells us "the Abbot thrust what remained of the microscope deep among the glowing birch logs in the fire-till all was burned."
I know I have told this part of Kipling's story at greater length than is perhaps customary in remarks such as these. The worst of it is that my brevity has butchered its beauty. Read the whole story for yourself. You won" regret it.
As I said, Kipling called the story "The Eye of Allah." He might with equal accuracy have called it "The Abbot's Choice."
Why do I tell the story now? What use can we make of it? Three things at least.
Life is about choices. We make them every day. They are mostly mundane. Whether to eat lunch now or later. Whether to study that extra hour or to adjourn to the party early. Whether to read one more trash novel or-for once, just once-to struggle through a decent piece of literature.
Some choices are not mundane. Whether to risk censure-or at least momentary obliquy in order to tell hard truths to unwilling ears. Whether to act meanly and so to avoid responsibility for an act of ill-considered stupidity-or whether to take responsibility for that stupidity-when no one else would ever really discover what we did.
To a few-to a few like the Abbot-there will come choices upon which hinge the outcome of great events-not just for the present but for the long-the long-long future. These are the choices that are a leader's lot-these are the choices of women and men-who avidly seek or who sometimes stumble upon great grants of power. The power of political leadership; the power of moral leadership; the power of intellectual leadership; the power-perhaps the greatest of all-to inspire or to betray-by the public example of our choices-those who have believed deeply in the integrity of our intentions.
Here is the truth. Among the billions who inhabit this earth-you-and I mean everyone of you-are among a minuscule number who have been given gifts so abundant and so potent-that through your whole lives-you will lead-and you will make choices that touch in countless ways the lives of countless others. Someone once described the American presidency as a "glorious burden." Your lives will be glorious in that hard sense. You may wish to escape the burden-to forego the glory-but you have not the power to escape the destiny marked out by the brains, by the will and by the self discipline given you by a loving God-an indifferent providence-or perhaps just the cosmic luck of the draw.
And in making these choices-the really big ones-all of us have much to learn from the Abbot's example. Kipling-I think-invites us to judge for ourselves the rightness of the Abbot's choice. It is an irresistible invitation. We know-as the Abbot could not-how the story turned out; we have all history since to tell us of the wonderful miracles wrought by science but also of the unspeakable horrors caused by its abuse. We know-in the end-the futility of the Abbot's choice. Futile perhaps because he could not know what we take for granted. But was it really futile? Could we call him wrong? We could I suppose-but I don" think we should.
The Abbot knew the limits of learning. He understood the point beyond which intellect alone cannot aid us. In this place-rightly and proudly devoted to study and to learning-it would be well occasionally to remind ourselves of the Abbot's example. He was a wise man. He loved learning. But he knew that learning without moral context is bound to fail us in the end. And what he knew was not just right for his time-it is right for ours as well.
Do we not live in troubled times? Of course we do. The great and the good seem today not so great and certainly not so good. The corruption of our country's business culture occurred not because our business leaders were dim-far from it-their betrayal was a reflection not of a deficiency of brains-but a deficit of conscience.
We rail against the inadequacy of our political leaders-in the nation and in our state. But we are a free society-ours is a representative government and what our government represents mostly-is us. We are the ones responsible for the banality, for the cravenness, for the petty displays of personal vanity that have become the stock and trade of so many American politicians in the first years of this new century. They are not stupid; neither are we. But we have elevated mere cleverness to a height it cannot sustain-at least not without a stronger moral foundation. The emptiness of our public leadership is a reflection of a profound moral void-not in our leaders-but in ourselves.
We see sin and corruption-they are the only words that fit-in some of our great religious institutions. How can that be? The Abbot knew. He knew that the arrogance of power-the failure not of belief-but of humility-infects not just the secular but the sacred. He saw that-and he tried-whether wisely or not-to stop it-by the right exercise of his power to choose. And he chose. And he took responsibility for his decision. "I take this choice," he said, "I take it upon my conscience." We wait in vain-too often and too long-for the voice of conscience to speak to too many of our leaders-and for them to confess-as did the Abbot-"The choice was mine-and I take it upon my conscience."
One last thing about choice-and this is perhaps the hardest part. Once again-the Abbot knew it. "It would seem," said he, "that the choice lies between two sins." He knew that the hardest choices-the ones that matter most-the ones the consequences of which last the longest-are not between obvious good and unalloyed evil. Any fool can make those.
No-the really hard ones are between what is bad and what is worse. And that-and even that-is not really the hardest thing. The really hardest thing is to avoid the self-deception which allows us to believe the choice is always between good and evil. The hardest thing is to use our brains and our consciences to tell ourselves these truths. That we are imperfect-our world is imperfect-and that despite knowing that we are almost certainly doomed to frequent failure-we somehow still believe we can make a shining world out of base materials that will redeem ambitions so honorable we cannot quite believe them real. The Abbot chose with that understanding-and he chose decisively-with an unblinking courage that revealed steel at his soul's center.
I mean these words to be uplifting-but-at all costs-I mean for them to be honest. And what honesty requires in this circumstance-is to remind you of what you will soon discover. That this is a place where corners are not cut; where the greatness that is in you will never be denied-but never pampered-and in consequence-a place where each of you will be expected-from time to time-to play the hero's part. And to what end-and to what end?
To the end that you will lead lives of honor-of honesty-of endeavor-and of achievement. To the end-that you will be prepared to make choices-choices-of the greatest moral consequence-not just for yourselves-but for all humanity. And in the hope-that you will choose-as surely you must-to walk always in the path of honor-knowing-as surely you will-that the path of honor leads often to places you would prefer not to go-and to consequences-were you only weak and merely clever-that you would do anything-anything-not to look squarely in the face.
